Sunday Bloody Sunday

by Sojourner84

Still reeling from the revelation of Dean's deal, the brothers hunt down the Hell Gate demons. But one hunt sends them to a place where secrets kill, sins are punished, and Sam and Dean feel the impact of an ageless war. Co. Gaelicspirit and Sojourner84

3. Wednesday: Gluttony

Disclaimer/Spoilers/Authors: See Chapter 1.

a/n: Sorry for the delay, guys. Between life and, well… life, we managed to wrestle this chapter into submission. Starting now, the chapters will be longer and more involved. This story could easily be told in more than 8 chapters, but as most of you have realized, there is a sin for every day, and that rhythm dictated the chapters… so we hope you'll bear with us and that you have fun with the length and the mystery.

Thanks so much for your reviews – and for reading! We hope you continue to enjoy the ride.

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"Gluttony is an emotional escape, a sign something is eating us."

- Peter De Vries

We ate the food, we drank the wine
Everybody having a good time
Except you
You were talking about the end of the world…

"Until the end of the World" – U2

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Wednesday: Gluttony

Dean was dreaming again.

Sam could just make out the trace of his brother's voice, his unique timbre weaving through Sam's dreams. Walking within the gray moment between waking and facing a new day, or plummeting over the edge into the more amiable embrace of sleep, Sam wasn't able to register Dean's distress.

Instead he turned onto his side and buried his head into the silence of his pillow. While his body chose to seek with abandon the release of being unaware, part of his mind was still in the room with Dean. His brother struggled silently, writhing in the unsympathetic arms of his sheets. Sam was semi-conscious of a need to get up, to move, to help Dean, however, the allure of silence and rest and darkness had already pulled him under and away from Dean.

Sleep didn't sever the connection to Dean. Instead his brother's peril manifested itself within Sam's new dreams. It conjured up images and memories that Sam was never able to evade. It played with and distorted the truth, jumbling places and people into a mosaic of confusion.

Sam was standing above Jake, watching the man's eyes go large, pupils constricting as he started to plead for his life through blood-coated lips. Sam felt nothing even closely resembling sympathy or mercy. Just cold resolve. Nothing would satiate him in that moment except to see Jake stop moving, to see this Judas stop his unjustified pleading. Jake had killed without flinching. Sam had stopped himself from taking Jake's life before and had been given Hell in return for his humanity. It was time to rectify his mistakes and take retribution.

The gun kicked in his hands and Sam watched the life drain away within Jake's dulling eyes. It left Sam with a cold yet fueling satisfaction that burned alongside of his anger. But when the fire inside him finally burned out and his anger abated, the cold overwhelmed the feeling of satisfaction, and Sam felt his soul recoil in response to watching Jake's blood being consumed greedily by the ground.

Dean's voice drifted to Sam's ears while he stood as judge, jury, and executioner above Jake's body. He couldn't make out what Dean was saying, but he lifted his eyes in the direction of the sound. For a brief second he felt relief at hearing Dean nearby, but Sam's reprieve from this nightmare was short lived as his eyes fell upon his brother.

Dean was pinned unceremoniously to a tombstone by an invisible force of strength, his face bleeding from the gash on his forehead, his eyes desperate, pleading with Sam. Dean's mouth was moving, but Sam couldn't discern the words. His voice was muffled, muted, and it wasn't following the cadence of his lips. It was like the sound in Sam's mind had been messed with somehow. What whispers Sam could make out of Dean's voice faded away, and his ears only picked up the white-noise that filled the maddening silence as he strained to pick up something, anything.

Dean was still speaking to him and Sam pressed his hands into the sides of his head to stop the painful monotone that was buzzing through his skull. He wanted to hear what Dean was saying, but every time he tried to focus on his brother's mouth, his temples ached with a hollowed-out feeling. Sam clamped his eyes shut, opening his mouth in silent protest to the painful confusion.

Dean…

And suddenly Sam could hear again. The single high-pitched hum in his ears drained away, leaving him pulling the rustle of the tree leaves and the breath of the wind into his ears.

"What am I supposed to do?"

Dean's voice had returned, and it was stronger than before and closer than Sam had expected it to be. There was a weakness to it, a painful twinge laced throughout the words. Sam opened his eyes, looking up at the tombstone where Dean had been caught earlier. His brother was no longer there. Sam's heart sped up and his eyes darted back down to Jake.

Sam gasped, the air catching in his chest as he took in his brother lying on the ground instead of Jake. Dean's chest was opened up with ragged bullet holes and Dean's blood was spilling over onto the hungry earth. The same light that had been fading from Jake's irises was now leaving Dean's tortured hazel eyes, and Sam dropped to his knees, his legs no longer able to hold him upright as he denied within his soul what he'd done.

Nononono…This is wrong.

Dean's chest rose and fell quickly in shallow gasps as he struggled to breathe, choking on his own blood. It rattled in his throat as he tried to reach up for Sam, his lips working in an attempt to speak.

"What…was I s'posed …t-to do S-Sammy?"

The gun fell from Sam's loose hand and he pulled his brother to him, holding him, trying desperately to wake up.

"I cost you everything…" Sam whispered.

And Sam felt Dean go still in his arms, felt one last breath drift against his neck…

"No!" Sam cried out, sitting up in bed to pull in a struggled breath of denial. He looked frantically over at Dean, taking in his crumpled profile, his head pressed into the sheets. Sam let out a breath of relief, rubbing at his face to reorient himself in the here and now.

Sam looked back over at Dean, studying his unsettled sleep. His brother's features glistened in the wan morning light, covered in a thick sheen of sweat. His brow creased and his face twisted fiercely into a frown. His hands, fisted in the sheets, were moving to push them away from him as if the material was pulling him down, holding him somewhere he desperately didn't want to be. He was struggling in his own dreamscape and Sam lowered his head.

When will this end?

"Dean," Sam called out.

He was hoping that would break his brother free from the snares of his mind, but Dean didn't wake. Sam blinked, thinking about how frequent these nightmares had become; every night since they'd left the last hunt and taken on this one. Dean had them occasionally since the Hell Gate. But now… now they seemed more violent and real to his brother. The way Dean shifted and groaned out words. Like he was fighting something…

Dean's movements became more panic-stricken and Sam knew he couldn't just sit there and watch him struggle alone. He needed to wake him, to get him out of that dream.

Pushing away the blanket and sheets, Sam swung his legs over the edge of the bed, peering closely at his brother's face. He tried desperately to shake off the after-image of Dean bleeding, Dean dying, the light leaving his brother's eyes.

"Dean." This time it was more than a call; it was a reassurance. You're okay, I'm okay… we're together, we're alive.

Dean's face didn't relax at the sound of his brother's voice—if anything, the lines around his eyes tightened, and Sam watched as the muscle along his jaw bounced in a rhythm betraying the chaos that tangled his brother's mind. Blinking in the shadows created inside the motel room from the early-morning light, Sam reached over and switched on the bedside lamp, then shifted to Dean's bed, perching on the edge and reaching for Dean's upper arm. Touching it gently, he called his brother's name again and was startled when Dean's eyes snapped open and he started to push himself upright.

"Hey, you okay?"

Dean blinked at him, unseeing. His pupils were so wide Sam could barely discern any green. Frowning, Sam reached for Dean's arm once more.

"What's goin' on?" Dean muttered, his voice rough, the words slurred with sleep and memories.

Sam wrapped his long fingers around Dean's arm and jumped when Dean jerked violently away.

"Where's he?"

"Who, Dean?"

"Sam," Dean's eyes began to dart around the room, his expression frantic. He pushed away from Sam, backing up in the bed until he hit the headboard.

"What?" Sam choked out.

"Was just here… where's he?"

Sam swallowed, a tight, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Take it easy, Dean," he said softly, reaching out a hesitant hand for Dean's shoulder.

At his touch, Dean flinched, his eyes flashing over Sam's face, his blink long and forced. Sam suddenly knew Dean wasn't seeing him, wasn't seeing the motel room, wasn't even seeing now. Sam had seen this happen to Dean before. Once. After a hunt that had gone very, very wrong. Seeing Dean… vulnerable… had scared Sam worse than the hunt his family had just returned from.

"You're dreaming, Dean," Sam said softly, his fingers hovering over Dean's arm, afraid to touch him. "Just go back to sleep, okay?"

Sam realized that he hadn't paid close enough attention to the increasing ferocity of Dean's nightmares, or he might have seen this coming. How did Dad handle this? Scrubbing a hand over his face once more, Sam searched his memory for that night, that moment when Dean had been close to breaking, when surviving once more by the skin of their teeth had pulled one too many bricks from his wall.

"Easy, Dude, just take it easy…"

"It's here, Dad, I see it, it's here…"

"Dad?"

"Sammy, go back to bed."

"What's wrong with Dean?"

"He's just having a nightmare."

"B-but… he's awake…"

"Get him, Dad, quick, get Sammy, Dad, get out…"

"He's not really awake, Sam."

Sam had been too young to go with them on that hunt… John and Dean had returned silent, dirty, and shaken. Dean had gone to sleep without showering or saying a word. Sam woke to find John in their room, Dean backed into a corner, crouched low, one hand bracing himself from behind, the other out before him, fingers clenched in a fist. His eyes had been wide, and they'd darted around the room, resting on nothing. Sam had watched as his father slowly approached, hands out, open, unthreatening.

"What am I supposed to do?"

That plea, that question had echoed through Sam's dream, altering it, twisting it until his subconscious shook him into realizing that this life, their life, was slowly wearing his brother down. Sam dropped his hand from his face, feeling his mouth pull low at the corners, the hot sting that warned of tears beating at the back of his eyes.

"Just… just take it easy, man," Sam whispered.

"Take it easy, kiddo," John had soothed. "It's over, okay? It's dead."

"It's here, Dad, I see it, get Sammy…"

Dean's words had run together, Sam remembered, his breath had hitched, his shoulders had visibly trembled. As they were now. Sam remembered convulsively curling and releasing his fingers into helpless fists as he watched his brother stare into the middle distance, wanting to stop whatever was happening, wanting to grab his brother.

"It's not here, Dean. It's gone. We killed it. You did good."

"Not gonna get him, Dad, not gonna get him…"

"No, it's not gonna get him. You burned it, Dean. You made it. We made it."

Sam pulled his lower lip in, biting it hard as he watched Dean's much-older, battle-worn eyes search the room for the brother he could still remember losing. That night, John's voice had been calm, whisper-soft, almost gentle. John had rarely been gentle, rarely soft in Sam's memory. Their lives had demanded that he focus them, that he teach them to survive, that he command them.

But as he'd crouched in front of Dean that night, Sam remembered John reaching out a careful hand, gripping Dean's shoulder with an almost tender grasp, and pulling his son close to him until Dean was almost hidden from Sam's eyes by the expanse of John's back.

Later, Sam had asked John what had happened and held his breath at the broken look that shot through his father's eyes.

"Sometimes the battle is harder to win than the war, Sammy. Sometimes, it's all just too much."

They had barely paused for breath upon leaving the Hell Gate in Wyoming. It had been weeks of nothing but struggling and exorcisms, death and pain. Sam felt close to the brink most days, but where he gave himself permission to be human, Dean had simply shorn up his walls until…

"Couldn't let him die, Bobby…"

"What?" Sam blinked, coming back to himself, his hand still hovering over Dean's arm.

"He's my brother." Hands fisted in the pillows flanking him, back pressed against the headboard, Dean was looking past him, his dilated eyes shifting, as if searching through images, reliving that one moment of terror. His voice was hushed, breathy, rapid words of panic stumbling through lips frozen with memory. "My job, man… watched him all his life… watched him… couldn't lose him… couldn't lose you, Sammy…"

Sam scooted slightly forward on the bed, his motion bunching the tangle of sheets and creating a barrier between their bodies. John had known exactly how to calm Dean, how to assure him that the nightmare wasn't real, that he'd done his job. Sam reached for Dean, trying to find it in himself to echo that strength, to assure the one person in his life that had always been a rock that it was okay to bend, it was okay to lean...

God, I miss you, Dad, Sam thought with an ache so powerful it lodged a suffocating lump at the base of his throat.

As he rested a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder, his brother gasped, his head tipping back, his eyes fluttering rapidly. When he spoke, Sam's heart broke at the childlike tremor of fear that escaped.

"He's burning, fire's so hot… 'cause of me… can't do this anymore… Sam! SAM!"

"I'm right here," Sam slid his hand from Dean's shoulder to the back of his neck, gripping tightly, trying to pull Dean's eyes to his, but his brother's nightmare held him tight. "I'm right here, Dean."

"It's not even that bad," Dean's voice was barely a breath now, "I'll take care'a you, Sammy… it's my job…"

"Aw, Christ, Dean," Sam whispered. He gripped the nape of his brother's neck and shook him. "Don't do this, man, please. It's over, okay?"

Dean blinked again and suddenly seemed to focus. Sam felt tears of frustrated helplessness spilling down his face as he peered at Dean, trying to determine if he was awake or if all of this was still part of his nightmare.

"I'm gonna burn, Sam," Dean whispered, his wide eyes steady, raw. "They're waiting for me."

Sam dropped his eyes to the pile of sheets between them. A strange sort of impotent rage began to build in his chest, heating his gut and spreading slowly through his limbs. He felt it searing his eyes and burning the back of his throat. He clenched his jaw tight against the scream of fury at the insensitivity of the universe; he wanted to hit something, hard. With a concentrated effort, Sam pulled his fingers from the back of Dean's neck and looked at his brother's devastated, open expression.

Sam wanted to cry and growl at the same time. He wanted to shake Dean hard and yet he wanted to pull him close as he'd remembered John doing. He wanted to storm out and slam the door behind him and he never wanted to let Dean out of his sight. Working to relax his fisted hands, he pushed carefully at Dean's shoulder, trying to tip him over onto his side, get him to lie down.

"You just gotta go back to sleep, Dean," Sam said, hearing the tears of anger in his voice. "It'll be okay if you go back to sleep."

Dean allowed himself to be maneuvered. As he slowly melted over to his side, Sam watched as his eyes blinked longer, slower. "Not gonna be okay," Dean protested softly. "Not anymore."

"Yes, it will," Sam insisted in a tight voice. "It will, Dean."

Dean ended up in a sideways slump, his head and shoulders on top of the pillow he'd tucked his knife under the night before, his back against the headboard, his legs curled up against him. Sam pulled at the tangle of sheets and spread them over the side of his brother.

"I made you a promise, man," Sam whispered as he stood up. "I'm gonna get you out of this. Why won't you believe me?"

Dean's eyes were closed, his lashes casting sooty shadows across his cheeks, but somehow he heard Sam. "Can't lose you, Sammy."

Sam shoved his hands into his hair. And what if I lose you, huh? He curled his fingers until they tugged painfully at his scalp. Keeping his eyes pinned to Dean, he watched as his brother allowed the deeper sleep to claim him once more, watching as his shoulders relaxed by increments, as he tucked slowly into the pillow.

When Dean sighed, Sam lifted his eyes to the curtained window set to the side of the motel door. Morning light had shifted from gray to gold as the sun lit the horizon and warmed their world. Swiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand, Sam shuffled around the end of Dean's bed and headed to the bathroom. He needed to rid his mind of the cobwebs, of the memories, of the anger that seemed to be digging furrows through his heart.

As steam filled the bathroom, Sam leaned over the sink, gripping the porcelain sides and hanging his head. He thought once more about that night so long ago. He thought of his father's voice, of the care John took with his son. He thought of the last words John had spoken to him, asking him if they could please, just not fight. Sam felt his jaw tremble. So much had happened since then. So much…

And then John had been there. Had saved Dean. Had saved them. And the expression in his father's eyes when he'd looked over at Sam had been pride wrapped in relief surrounded by love. It had filled Sam until he couldn't breathe. Until he was trembling from the weight of it.

A low sob escaped and Sam brought his head up. He clenched his jaw, drawing in the emotion, stamping it out as he'd seen his brother do so many times in his life. Dean did not make that sacrifice in vain. Sam was going to make sure of it. His brother wasn't going to burn. He didn't care who was waiting for him.

When Sam stepped out of the bathroom, humidity from the shower following in his wake, the first thing he saw was Dean's bruised back hunched over the table strewn with clues. The angry purple marks had faded around the edges to a dusty yellow, but they still looked painful. He was dressed only in his boxers, evidently waiting for Sam to get out of the shower before he made any further effort to prepare for the day.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the sound of the bathroom door opening. "'Bout time, Princess." He dropped the St. Patrick's pendant back on the table. "There's a water shortage in Oklahoma, y'know."

"Bite me," Sam tossed back with a tiny smile.

Dean's eyes were shadowed, secret, normal. Gone was the raw fear, the open door to the wounded soul that Sam couldn't bear to see. Sam crossed the room to dig a T-shirt from his duffel bag.

"You sleep okay?" Sam asked.

"Eh, sleep is overrated," Dean commented. "There are better things to do with the nighttime hours."

Sam grinned, shaking his head. "You really are a slut."

"Not true," Dean lifted an eyebrow. "I'm a connoisseur."

"Oh, is that it?"

Sam sat on the chair next to the table, leaning over to pull on his boots. His relief that while Dean may remember the dream, he didn't seem to remember the waking nightmare—and if he did, he wasn't talking about it—was hidden from his brother as he bent low to tie up the laces.

As Sam straightened, his shoulder bumped the table, sending the VHS tape and pendant sliding off. Dean rotated and caught the tape, letting the pendant fall to the ground. Sam bent to pick up the pendant.

"Looks like we got the wrench and the lead pipe, Colonel Mustard," Dean quipped. "All we need now is the candlestick and we're home free."

Sam absentmindedly fingered the worn edges of the pendant, his eyes on the Bible. "Not exactly," he said. "We don't know who or where…"

Dean snapped his fingers as he headed toward the bathroom. "Right! The conservatory. Always forget about that place. What is a conservatory anyway?"

Sam ignored Dean's blatant attempt at making light of the situation. "We need to go do some recon, Dean."

Dean paused in the doorway of the bathroom, hand on the door jam. "Good idea. When I'm done, let's head back to the diner."

Sam brought his head up. "What the hell are we gonna find there?"

"No idea," Dean shrugged. His mouth tipped up in a grin. "But I'm starvin', and I'd like to see Gwen about some pie."

"Pie? It's like... seven in the morning!"

Dean's grin widened. "Always time for... pie."

He ducked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, blocking out Sam's frown.

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Dean swung the Impala around the nearest gas pump, using one hand to steer with unparalleled precision, and brought her safely into park. Both windows were down, and Dean was contentedly bobbing his head to Zeppelin's D'yer Mak'er, sunglasses in place above the upturned corners of his mouth as he sang along.

"When I read the letter you sent me, it made me mad mad mad. When I read the news that it brought me, it made me sad sad sad. But I still love you so, I can't let you go, I love you- ooh baby I love you..."

Dean took in a deep breath and let it out audibly to make his satisfaction clear before shutting off the Impala.

Sam looked up from his writing for a moment to take in the sight of his brother. One arm out the window and one on the wheel, and while he bore one of his trademark all is well with the world grins, the lines around his eyes were visible beneath his shades. But a little fresh air in his beloved car, some Zeppelin, and Dean was strangely like a new man. More, Dean was like Sam remembered him. The Dean he knew before deals with demons had become family practice.

Too bad it's all an act. For just one moment Sam wished that his brother's happiness wasn't a fabrication that even Dean himself had bought into. Dean slipped into masks with such ease that no one but Sam would have known that just this morning his brother had been pushed to the edge of a waking nightmare. The casual observer never would have guessed that Dean was simply waiting for Hell to open up beneath his feet.

Sam blamed the years of practice that Dean had accrued, hiding truth within the safety-nets of sarcasm and simplicity, for Dean concealing mental wounds now. It was a good thing, then, that Sam had years of practice looking at what hid behind all the carefully placed bricks in his walls.

Sam went back to the words he had listed in the back of his father's journal: the three virtues that they'd found so far. Sam had also sketched out the pendant, making a rubbing of the front. It was weird to add to the pages John had written, yet, at the same time, this was just one way Sam thought he could continue in the memory of his father; keep on hunting, keep on filling these pages with the things that they came across.

The pendant, letter, and tape were sitting in a pile on the seat beside him. Sam drummed one hand against the words penned on the page.

"Humilitas, Liberalitas, Frenum… Frenum…"

Sam wasn't aware that he was repeating the word over and over again until he felt Dean's eyes burning into him. Dean kept fidgeting and Sam got the hint before Dean even said anything.

"Dude, you keep talking about abstinence—in Latin or any language for that matter—I'm going to leave you here."

Sam lifted a teasing eyebrow. "It doesn't only have to do with sex, Dean."

His brother returned the remark with an incensed look. He took off his sunglasses and tossed them up on the dash. "Sure, right. I knew that," he muttered, eyes shifting to the side.

"It could reference anything that people do too much of… like eating or drinking or gambling or… well, name your vice. So of the seven sins, the next victim could be…"

"Lust or Gluttony," Dean finished.

"So, I… just gotta figure out… y'know… where to start…" Sam sighed, closing his father's journal.

Dean shifted his weight, putting one hand on the door; Sam could tell he wanted out of the car.

"You want anything?" Dean asked, one foot already out of the Impala.

"What? Like a snack on the way to breakfast?" Sam laughed.

He looked up at Dean and his smile faded. There was something about Dean's face. His brother was forcing normal as hard as he could, trying to move around the obvious internal issues like they weren't there. Staying still for too long left him facing it.

Hearing about this hunt wasn't helping him either. For some reason this hunt was making Dean anxious. There was something off and it echoed from Dean's weary eyes. He was working extra hard to keep his game-face on… Talk to me, Dean…

"Uh…" Sam started, searching his mind for something that he needed from the gas station convenience store. "A newspaper. That might help."

The request had no sooner left Sam's lips, than Dean had turned and practically sprinted into the store. Sam followed his brother with his eyes, sighing as he disappeared through the glass doors. The sooner that Sam figured this out, the sooner they could leave and maybe change their direction. They'd spent weeks going after the Hell Gate demons, trying to clean up their mess. Sam was beginning to think they should shift their focus to looking for a way to free Dean from his contract.

Sam had been doing what he could on the side. He already had Bobby and a few of Bobby's contacts looking for loop holes. Maybe when Dean was out from under the Crossroads Demon's hold, then they could hunt down the rest of the Hell Gate demons…

Now, though, Sam wanted to leave one hunt where they actually saved someone. They were too involved in this to back out now. Knowing that whatever was killing these people still had five victims in mind, Sam refused to give up.

He set down the journal on top of the video tape and got out to put gas in the car. Someone pumping gas on the other side locked eyes with Sam, and Sam smiled his greeting. The man didn't return Sam's warm gesture. He put back the nozzle and got back behind the wheel of his truck, his cold gaze never leaving Sam.

Friendly… How the hell did this town get its title?

Sam considered ways to go about asking questions of the locals. Walking up to someone and saying, "Hey, do you think it's strange that three of the seven virtues were left on the victims?" didn't exactly sound like a smooth or stealthy way to go about the investigation. Then again, if he wasn't careful, that was probably what Dean would end up doing.

Sam cast a look back at the doors his brother had entered. His mind drifted for the millionth time that morning to Dean's dream. His hollowed-out expression, the words he'd spoken without being aware that he was laying his soul out in front of Sam, all burned into Sam's mind along with the mystery in Mercy.

Sam had spent a huge chunk of the night before looking up the Seven Virtues on the Internet, but the most he was able to come up with was a reference to Psychomachia, an epic poem written by Aurelius Clemens Prudentius, and the Seven Deadly Sins. The latter led him to Dante's Divine Comedy, which only made Sam wish that he'd paid better attention in World Literature.

Library it is, he thought. Dean's gonna love that.

Sam topped off the gas, returning the pump to the holder. He glanced up to see Dean through the window in line at the check-out counter. He met his brother's eyes, indicated the pump with his head and watched as Dean nodded. Got it.

Sam slouched against the trunk of the Impala, waiting for Dean to come back so that they could get moving. He needed more than just Frenum and some obscure book references to help him figure out who was next. How was it picking them? How did it know? Sam had to believe there was more of a pattern than just… chance.

He was startled out of the maze in his mind by the crack of a bat and the unified cry of success by the voices of several boys playing baseball in a sandlot across from the gas station. Sam let his eyes follow the kid that had hit the homer as he rounded the bases, slightly in awe of the energy displayed at such an early hour. Some days it was all he could do to roll out of bed and force himself upright. When did twenty-four become old?

He heard the door of the store open and looked over his shoulder as his brother exited, a newspaper tucked under one arm and an opened bag of Peanut M&Ms in the other. Dean popped two of the candies into his mouth, grinning at Sam.

"Want some?" He held out the bag.

Sam shook his head. "Dude," he reached for the paper under Dean's arm. "We have got to discuss your eating habits."

"What are you talking about?" Dean's eyebrows quirked over the bridge of his nose as he tossed a blue M&M into his mouth.

Voices from the lot rose in a chorus of disappointment and Dean and Sam raised their heads simultaneously to regard the group of kids as the youths turned as one to follow the path of their wayward baseball. The ball crossed the road unmolested and bounced up and over the curb, coming to rest against the Impala's rear tire. Dean handed the M&Ms to Sam, bent over and grabbed up the ball.

"Here, Mister!" Called a hefty kid with enough freckles peppering his face that he looked almost tan. He pounded a small, meaty fist into his open glove as he jogged to the edge of the lot. "I'll make it easy for ya!"

The kid crouched, glove up, open, and waiting.

Dean felt his mouth relax into a natural smile—he paused, relishing the feel of the moment, the feel of enjoying something for the sake of enjoying and not because it was going to promote an end result. Not because it was going to take him somewhere or get him out of... or into... something.

"I'd back up," Dean called, waving lazy fingers in Freckles' direction.

The kid grinned. "Sure, Mister. If you say so." He didn't move.

Dean tossed a quick glance at Sam, watching his brother's open interest and easy grin. Rolling his shoulders once, Dean pulled back his right arm, fingers twitching over the stitches of the small, white ball, hitched his left leg up slightly, stepped into the motion and let go of the ball.

He grinned as Freckles' eyes widened, his head ticking back and over as he watched the ball clear the outfield and pitcher's mound. The miniature catcher tossed off his mask, backing up into the fence, his glove up, catching the ball with the tip of his mitt, then pulling his arm down quickly and lifting his eyes up to peer at the man in the leather jacket who had just cleared the road as well as the entire lot with one throw.

Freckles turned back to regard Dean with wide eyes. "Uh… thanks, Mister."

Dean lifted a shoulder. "All in the wrist."

He turned back to Sam, holding out his hand for the M&Ms. Sam handed him the bag, still grinning.

"Why didn't you ever play ball?"

"Who says I didn't?"

"I do."

Dean leaned against the Impala's trunk next to Sam. He popped a green M&M into his mouth, rolling it over his tongue and sucking the candy shell from the chocolate. "I played ball, Sam."

"When?" Sam looked over at him, unconsciously rolling the newspaper into a cylinder.

Dean crunched the peanut and met Sam's eyes. "You were there, man. Uh… Philly maybe?"

Sam simply looked at him.

"There was a sandlot kinda like that one," Dean nodded toward the kids taking advantage of the coolness of the morning. "We'd head out there every afternoon, meet up with some of the neighborhood kids… we stayed in that place for like a month, man." Dean frowned at Sam. "You don't remember?"

Sam shook his head, silent. He stared at the paper clutched in his hand, the toe of his boot, the kids in the sandlot across the way—anywhere but Dean.

"What is it, Sam?"

"Nothing."

"C'mon," Dean bumped his elbow against Sam's arm. "Open and honest hour."

Sure it is, Sam thought. For everyone but you.

Sam kept his eyes on the kids. "You think that…"

Dean felt Sam shift his weight against the unyielding surface of the Impala. He waited. Sam would talk. He always did. He wanted to. It was just a matter of him finding the right words.

"What if I came back… wrong?"

The question was uttered so softly that had Dean popped the M&M he held poised over his open mouth he would have missed it. He dropped the candy back into the bag and let his shoulders roll forward, his hands resting on his thighs.

"We've talked about this, Sam."

Sam stayed silent; they sat so close that Dean felt Sam's shoulders stiffen. He turned and watched his brother's profile.

"You aren't wrong… you're you."

"I can't remember playing ball, though," Sam said, his throat working. Dean kept his eyes on Sam's face, waiting. "I can't remember other stuff, either."

"Like what?"

Sam shrugged. "Little things… like… where we were when Dad took you on your first hunt, or… how old I was when I found out about Mom."

"Nebraska, and five."

Sam looked straight ahead. "See? You remember."

"I'm older, Sam," Dean said softly.

"So?" Sam turned to look at him, his eyes full and tinged with an honest fear.

"So… it's part of the job description." Dean crinkled his eyes, not quite smiling, but his face relaxing just the same, letting Sam know with that subtle movement that it was okay… this was okay. "You got me around to remember the stuff you can't. I got you around to…"

"Be a pain in your ass?" Sam offered with a hesitant smile.

"Basically, yeah."

They sat for another minute, watching the kids play ball. Dean crumpled the empty M&M bag in his hand and tossed it into the garbage can between the pumps.

"What are they doin' out anyway," he asked around a mouthful of chocolate. "Shouldn't they be in school?"

"School's out for summer, Dean," Sam said, pushing away from the trunk of the car and moving to the passenger door.

"It is?" Dean asked, looking back as Freckles taunted the batter. "Where does the time go?"

Though said with a hint of amused sarcasm, Dean felt a slight hitch in his chest that echoed through his heart and skittered across his still-bruised back. It went to the demons and the devils… The darkness of the world was eating up his time.

He pulled his keys from his pocket and flipped them over into the palm of his hand. Starting toward the driver's side, he pulled up short at Freckles' call.

"Hey, Mister! Tommy had to go home," he yelled, his mitt cupped alongside his mouth. "You wanna play?"

Dean glanced at Sam, a grin splitting his features, his eyes alight with the possibility. Sam simply lifted an eyebrow, shook his head, and opened his door. Dean looked back over at Freckles.

"You couldn't take the heat, kid," Dean called.

"Eh," Freckles waved his glove at the Impala and turned back to continue heckling the batter.

Dean met Sam's eyes. "Friendly town."

Sam flicked a glance over Dean's shoulder to the gas station attendant watching through the glass doors. Friendly, right... Mercy was a town full of secrets. Sam folded his body into the Impala and closed the door.

Dropping behind the wheel, Dean glanced over as Sam scanned the front page of the newspaper, then flipped through a few more pages. He stuck the key in the ignition and fired up the engine, the radio belting out a morning DJ's rapid voice.

"So, diner then?"

Sam shook his head. "Library."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You gotta be kiddin' me."

"Dean," Sam looked up. "There's an entire article here about how the police are baffled by Father Simons' death."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Yeah, so? It was... hinky."

"Doesn't say anything about Daniel Gibson."

Tugging the gearshift down to drive, Dean pulled slowly from the gas station and headed in the direction of the town center and the diner. "Maybe they don't see the connection that you see."

Sam closed the paper and turned down the radio. "You mean that we see."

Dean turned up the radio. Boston's Peace of Mind bounced through the interior of the car. "I'm not so sure, Sam."

"Dean, you said—"

"I said I'd go with you on the killer following the deadly sins thing," Dean glanced over at his brother. "But I'm still not buying demon here."

Sam sighed, facing forward. His jaw clenching. "Why not?"

Dean took a breath. "There wasn't any sulfur at either of the scenes—"

"Doesn't mean that—"

"Sam," Dean interrupted. "Why go to all of this trouble, huh? Why leave behind these clues? Why… punish like this?"

Sam frowned, looking sideways at Dean while Tom Scholz crooned in the background.

"I understand about indecision, but I don't care if I get behind. People livin' in competition, all I want is to have my peace of mind…"

"What do you mean?"

"God, Sam, demons just..." Dean sighed, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "When have we ever known a demon to give us… give anyone a chance to stop them? I mean... clues? Teaching lessons?"

"Lessons?"

"That letter, man. Whoever killed Daniel Gibson was making a point." Dean shook his head, glancing to the side mirror. "Demons just don't..."

"The yellow-eyed demon—"

"What, Sam," Dean snapped suddenly, heat in his voice triggered by the mention of the being that had dictated the path of their lives. "What? He gave us nothing. He showed you only what he wanted you to see. He's dead because we beat him, alright? Not because he gave us a fuckin' chance."

Sam swallowed, nodding quickly. "Okay."

Dean tightened his jaw, pulling a breath in through his nose. He said nothing else, but Sam could almost feel him seethe. It was hard to force normal when their brand of reality kept smacking them in the face.

"Okay," Sam repeated, rubbing a hand along his thigh. "So maybe it's not a demon… but it's killing people… so it's still evil."

"Yeah, well... death is evil," Dean grumbled pulling into a parking spot in front of the diner.

They sat for a moment, each struggling to voice thoughts too heavy to be carried by words. Finally, as Boston faded and Aerosmith's Mama Kin rattled out, Dean licked his lips and brought his head up.

"It ain't easy, livin' like a gypsy. Tell ya honey how I feel. I've been dreamin', floatin' down the stream n' losin' touch with all that's real..."

"Listen, Sam," he said. "You don't have to keep trying to convince me, okay? I'm in this with you. We'll figure it out. And we'll… do whatever we need to do when we find him. Or... it."

Sam worked his jaw. He knew Dean needed him to back down a bit, knew he was hanging on by his fingernails. He'd seen just that morning what happened if Dean dared to let go.

Dean looked over at him, shifting slightly in his seat. "So, we good?"

Sam nodded, then looked over at Dean, allowing his mouth to relax slightly. "Yeah."

You're gonna have to let me save you, man...

Reaching out was just not what they did; it wasn't their way. Sam curled his hands into loose fists in an effort to keeping them still. Dean nodded once, then looked back into the diner. He smiled when he saw Gwen's ponytail swish as she turned from one table and faced another.

"I'm not hungry, Dean," Sam said, watching him. "I'm going to head to the library." He jerked his head toward the large stone building to the west of the diner.

Dean shook his head. "We already know what the Latin word means, man. We gotta shake down the locals, find out who needs to, uh…"

"Abstain."

Shuddering, Dean nodded. "Right. That."

"There's something else, though… something driving this pattern."

"Other than the twisted logic of a psycho killer?"

"There's a weird order here," Sam said, holding up his hand, ticking his fingers down. "Pride first, then Greed and now… Frenum."

"Right. Lust or Gluttony," Dean sighed.

Sam chewed on his lower lip. "All I know is that it feels… familiar."

As he spoke, Dean saw Sam's eyes catch on someone entering the diner. He looked over his shoulder and saw Detective Cullen walk in, remove his hat, then smile at Gwen who sat him in a booth right in front of the Impala.

"Okay, SAT-boy, you go into research mode," Dean said, gripping the steering wheel, his ring clicking against the metal. "I'm gonna go to, uh…" He twisted in his seat, looking out of the rear window. "Get me some coffee at the Been There, Drunk That."

Sam followed his gaze. "Who thinks up this stuff?"

"Probably Stanford grads," Dean said, shutting off the engine.

"You're gonna leave her here?"

Dean glanced at Cullen, then dropped his eyes. "Draw less attention than if we pull away."

Sam shrugged his agreement, reached over the seat to retrieve his messenger bag and laptop, then stuffed John's journal with the information they'd gathered so far into the front pocket of the bag. They exited the car as one. Heading around the back of the car, they paused at the trunk and looked in either direction.

"Meet here in a couple hours?" Sam suggested.

"I'll find you before then," Dean said. "Not sure how much mocha I can stand."

Dean started to step out into the street and Sam stopped him with a word.

"Thanks."

Dean looked over at him, surprised. "For what?"

Sam shrugged. "For… being here. For sticking with me."

One year to live… one year to know what life is really like, and you're here with me… you're sticking with me.

Dean blinked, then grinned, expertly masking the sudden, fierce ache in his heart, preventing it from settling in his eyes like a beacon. "Where else am I gonna go?"

I can't breathe without you around, Sammy.

He turned from Sam and jogged across the street quickly so that Sam didn't see how hard it was for him to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat.

www

There was something almost innate about the way Sam loved the smell of books. Not two seconds in the door of the Mercy District Library and Sam's nostrils were drinking up the scent of paper and ink sending him into an instant euphoric state. It had been a while since he'd stepped into a library. Too long. And while he'd never admit this to Dean's face, he was slightly relieved that his brother wasn't there. It left Sam alone to do some quality research… and process.

Sam shrugged his shoulder to shift the weight of his messenger bag, and made his way across the expansive entryway to the front desk. The vaulted ceiling enhanced the sound of his boots as they fell against the freshly-polished marble floors. For such a small town, Mercy had a very impressive library.

Sam leaned on the check-out desk, watching the librarian on duty, as her fingers flew across the keyboard in front of her. Sam turned an eager eye to the rows of literature calling to him in the adjacent rooms.

"Can I help you?" she asked, tapping a few more keys before lifting her eyes to his.

She was young, no older than Sam, with thin wire glasses fixed before large green eyes. Her face sloped inward toward her small mouth, which was now drawn smaller in anticipation of Sam's request. Sam's gaze went to the name plaque sitting in front of her computer.

"Uh, Becky, I was wondering if you could direct me to the catalogues."

She shook her head, pouting out what little lip she had.

"Yeah, sorry, the catalogue computers are down," she sighed deeply, like this was some kind of tragedy. It was so ridiculously emphasized that Sam couldn't tell if she really was sorry.

"You wouldn't happen to know where I could find a copy of Psychomachia and Dante?"

She twisted a strand of hair about her finger, eyes darting over to the left as she thought about the question.

"Like the Inferno?" she asked.

Sam smiled thinly. "I could start with that. I'd really like his whole Divine Comedy."

When she returned his request with a simple blank stare, Sam dropped his head and tapped his knuckles against the oak counter.

"You know what? I don't mind looking around."

"Oh-okay," she stammered. "If you need any help…"

He could see the red burnishing her cheeks now.

"I'll ask," Sam replied, flashing a smile before making his way to the staircase for the second floor.

Sam found a table nestled into a corner and a nearby outlet for his computer. He wasted no time making the tiny space of the library his base of operations. His father's journal was open to the pages he'd been recording their clues in, and along side that was a yellow legal pad, open to a fresh page.

Some quick searching had located an anthology that contained Psychomachia. It was the only copy he'd been able to find. He was also able to locate two copies of Dante's Inferno. Either this library didn't carry the full Divine Comedy or it had been checked out already. Sam had to go with what he could get, and for now he knew he'd have to deal without Purgatorio or Paradiso.

It's better than nothing, he thought.

Plugging his headphones into his computer, he started up a song play list and settled into his old Stanford rhythm. He scanned the Psychomachia first; with the music as a background, he was able to focus. Jess had always teased him about his ability to read with music. She needed the silence. Sam couldn't think in silence. Especially now. Sam didn't want to be left with wherever the silence took his thoughts. That, and a girl two rows over kept tapping her pencil against the table and clearing her nose.

"…What if I wanted to break, laugh it all off in your face? What would you do? What if I fell to the floor, couldn't take this anymore? What would you do?"

Despite the music and the open book before him, Sam thoughts still strayed to Dean. He hadn't really thought about what he was saying when he thanked Dean for staying around. He'd meant it genuinely, but a part of him now wished he hadn't said anything at all. It was spoken from his fears that morning, from watching Dean suffer in his own personal Hell… Sam was still shaken; he'd wanted Dean to know that even though he wished Dean had never made that deal, he was grateful to be alive…

"…I know that it never goes away. All I feel, everything I'm not today. So I try and I try to make everything right. I don't feel like I'm doing it, it affects me…"

Sam pushed the anthology away. Psychomachia, the Battle of Souls, wasn't exactly what he was looking for. It was a short piece about virtues battling vices. But it didn't focus on the traditional Seven Virtues—the ones that they were dealing with. Sam picked up one copy of the Inferno, cracking it open and laying it out.

"Abandon hope, all ye who enter here…" Sam grumbled, then cracked his neck.

Through me you pass into the city of woe:
Through me you pass into eternal pain:
Through me among the people lost for aye.

"Cheery."

Sam hadn't much enjoyed this read the first time he'd gone through it for Lit class. And now after everything…

There was a diagram of the circles of Hell, and Sam saw that the second ring through the fifth ring were related to the Seven Deadly sins. He copied the rings into his notebook and started into the Cantos.

After moving through the poetry, line by line, Sam wasn't convinced that whatever was killing these people had anything to do with Dante's Inferno. The Lustful were stuck in an eternal whirlwind, while the Gluttons ate their own filth. The Greedy had something to do with boulders, but not on their back, and it had been Daniel Gibson under the mark of Pride that had been struck down that way.

Sam shoved away this book as well, rubbing at his eyes to alleviate the pressure building behind them. He'd gone in there simply wanting to skim Dante and had ended up getting sucked into the pages. The imagery…. suffering displayed on a scale that at times seemed overkill. Divine Comedy was right. Not that Sam found any of this hilarious. A Stanford education affording him the knowledge that a comedy was simply not in the category of say a tragedy, but still, Sam found it to be a definite cosmic joke.

"… Until you crash. Until you burn. Until you lie. Until you learn. Until you see
Until you believe…Don't save me, don't save me, cuz I don't care…"

His research wasn't producing anything usable and Sam wasn't exactly enjoying the reminders of what Hell held for its tenants. True, this was Hell through one man's eyes, but the pictures painted on the mind weren't pleasant ones.

…save your ass for a change…

Dante and Virgil. The characters triggered thoughts of saving Dean. Several times Virgil had to carry Dante through the Inferno. If they couldn't figure this out… Sam would follow Dean into the depths of Hell and lead him out, if that was what it took. But Sam wasn't going to lose Dean. Not to the Crossroads Demon. Or any other demon for that matter. It would never come down to Dean losing his soul for him. Sam wouldn't let it.

He needed to look for answers… just as soon as they could disconnect from the town of Mercy with a clear conscience.

What am I missing?

There was a light tap on Sam's shoulder. He'd been so engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn't detected another presence at his side. He jerked away, rolling his shoulder out from under the finger and turning around.

Becky was standing there, startled by his sudden movements. Sam's hands flew up to his ear buds and yanked them down.

"Sorry to startle you," she whispered.

Sam noted the gigantic volume under her arm.

"You wanted the Divine Comedy right?"

Sam turned around completely in his chair. "Yeah, yeah… that would be great."

She held out the large book to him, the weight in her small hands looked like it would snap her wrist. Sam's hand darted out to catch the spine and he pulled it back onto the table.

"Are you like a Lit major?" Becky asked.

"Naw, just reading for, uh, personal gain," Sam replied.

The girl shifted her weight. "Dante… It's kind of like that movie… You ever see it? My ex wanted to start a club where the levels of Hell were different dance floors. Put that 'abandon hope' saying on the door like in the Boondock Saints."

Sam sighed, not entirely up for a discussion about pop culture. "Thanks for this," he said, turning back around and opening the book. This volume contained pictures. Now the suffering had an actual image to accompany it. Great…

"That particular volume," she continued. "We have to keep here in the library."

Sam nodded. He'd just make photocopies if he needed to. He hoped that his back turned to Becky would signal that he was ready to start reading, but her shadow remained. He waited for her to add something else.

"It's so weird…" Becky continued, and Sam's shoulders slumped forward in defeat. He only had so long before Dean got bored and came to find him.

"That copy is supposed to stay here, and then you come and ask for it, I can't find it… but some guy just walks in and gives it to me."

Sam's head snapped around his shoulder. "He still here?"

"He was wearing a red ball cap. He was just at the desk…"

Sam got to his feet and sprinted for the staircase, taking each stair two or four at a time. He burst into the main lobby, looking around for the guy with a red cap. He wasn't sure this was even his guy, but if he could catch him and talk to him…

Sam bolted out onto the front steps of the library, scanning the surrounding sidewalks and the drivers of the cars that passed. No one with a red cap…

Sam returned to his table, passing Becky in the stairwell. He noted the way that she pressed against the railing. He knew he had to look crazy to her.

"He leave a name?" Sam asked.

Becky shook her head and continued on her way without another word.

Sam slumped back down into his chair, moving past the vivid pictures in the Inferno, and opening to Purgatorio. The opening page held a drawing of a mountain, sectioned off into terraces. The Antepurgatory and Purgatory Proper. The souls trapped here were given a chance for redemption through temporary suffering.

Purgatory Proper was sectioned into the Seven Deadly Sins. Sam scoffed that love was the theme. Misdirected love, Deficient love, and Excessive love. If this was somehow related to the murders, then the killer probably thought they were giving the victims a chance at redemption by killing them this way.

Sam moved quickly through the Cantos, scanning as fast as he could for the specific sins. He was rewarded when he reached Canto X. The Proud were made to carry boulders on their backs...

"Yahtzee." Sam echoed his brother.

In Canto XIX, Sam found the Greedy, and his heart jumped with the realization that he'd found the pattern.

Just as our eyes, attached to the worldly goods,
Would never leave the earth to look above,
So Justice, here, has forced them to the ground.

"Holy shit…" Sam breathed.

Father Simons' eyes were missing, filled with dirt. He'd been forced to look at the ground…

Sam grabbed up the book and his things, making his way for the copier.

www

Thanks, he says, Dean thought. Dumbass kid friggin' thanks me for sticking around.

A girl with curly, dark hair turned from the counter holding a glass filled to the brim with a pale, caramel-colored beverage. He felt her gaze, lifting his eyes to meet her warm ones. Her mouth curled up in a smile. Dean simply nodded back at her, noticing that she took an immediate left and skirted the table he stood next to while he waited in a seemingly endless line, dropping her eyes from his.

Dean took a step forward in line, making a conscious effort to relax his jaw. He was aware that he looked ready to spit nails and having people give him a wide berth was counterproductive to his being in the land of world-class rock and lattes.

Where the hell else am I gonna go? Dean's internal monologue refused to be quieted. You're… dammit, Sam… you just don't get it, do you?

He rubbed the heel of his hand against his suddenly aching forehead, tapping gingerly at the bruising that still framed his eye, then brought his head up. Weariness wore down the instinct to charm. He never told Sam about the nightmares, about seeing fire wrap around him, about reliving the moment of his ultimate failure night after night. He knew Sam was aware of the dreams, but he couldn't let him really see… couldn't let Sam know how low they pulled him every night. Sam needed to believe that he could handle it. He needed Sam to believe… otherwise…

One step closer to the counter and Dean took a deep, heady breath of cocoa beans and cinnamon. He let his eyes roam past the people in line in front of him and scanned the large chalkboard behind the counter listing the many concoctions available and the eclectic collection of fliers and banners announcing local bands and open mic nights.

As he absorbed his surroundings, he saw the cashier's head bounce in rhythm to the beginning chords of the song filling the small coffee bar and turning the myriad of voices around him to a dull hum of background noise.

"Everybody's worried about time, but I just keep that shit off my mind. People living on twenty-four hour clocks, but we're on a ride that never stops…"

He was beginning to think he'd picked wrong; this place was more up Sam's alley. Taking another step forward, Dean flicked a tight smile at the slim, blonde woman who looked to be in her early thirties standing in line in front of him as she turned to glance behind him.

"Maxine," she called, paying no attention to Dean. "C'mere, sweetie, I saved you a place in line."

"You sure?" Maxine stepped past Dean, casting large brown eyes in his direction as she tucked a loose strand of black hair behind her ear.

Dean folded his lips down, shrugged, and motioned with his hand that of course it was fine if she stepped in front of him. It wasn't as if he'd been conscious for going on three hours now without coffee. It wasn't as if every moment he stood in this straight-out-of-One-Tree-Hill coffee shop was a waste of a moment he could be spending with his brother... or a good looking woman... or drinking a cup of freakin' coffee.

"…Gibson's murder. I mean, Beth, they have nothing to go on," Maxine was saying in a hushed, secretive tone.

Dean instantly zoned in on their conversation. He raised his eyes to the chalkboard, studying the colorful words sightlessly, his ears perked, the fine hairs on the back of his neck raising slightly.

"Well, you ask me, he got into something," Beth commented as they all took another step forward in line.

Dean dropped his eyes from the board to watch the blonde tilt her head toward her taller friend and pitch her voice low.

"You know he had a drug problem," she whispered.

Maxine pulled her head back sharply with a barely-muffled gasp. "No!"

Beth nodded, then cocked her head sideways, listening, "Oh, I just love Jack Johnson, don't you?"

Dean rolled his eyes. Jack Johnson? Seriously? What the—

"Yeah, Billy took the girls and me to a concert couple weekends back," Maxine smiled.

The women paused to listen as the person in front of them in line placed his order.

"But there is not enough time, there is no, no song I could sing and there is no combination of words I could say, but I will still tell you one thing, we're better together…"

Dean swallowed, listening to the music despite himself. It always came back to time. Time and Sammy. He wasn't allowed to have both.

The women were now at the counter and placed their orders. As their drinks were being prepared, Beth turned back to Maxine and picked up right where she'd left off.

"It's such a shame, you know," Beth shook her head. "I mean I feel sorry for the kids. Anna pretty much checked out on Dan about two years ago."

"Where are they staying now, do you know?"

"With Anna's parents."

Maxine took her coffee and waited while the kid behind the counter finished filling Beth's cup with so much syrup and flavoring that Dean had to suppress a shudder.

"Not to speak ill of the dead," Maxine said, sipping her drink, "but did you see Dan with Sara Tyler at the PTA meeting last Friday?"

"Oh, Max, you know she wouldn't have acted that way if she hadn't been, y'know… hammered," Beth waved a hand at her friend, a wicked smile quirking up her thin, painted lips.

"Honey, when is she not hammered these days…"

Beth took her coffee and the women turned in unison to step past Dean and head to a small table next to a window bench seat and continue their conversation. Dean watched them go, trying in vain to hear what any of that had to do with Daniel Gibson's wife.

"Dude," a voice called his attention. "You gonna order or what?"

"Uh," Dean looked back at the chalkboard. "Yeah, just gimme a coffee, man."

"What kind?"

"Black."

"No, I mean… what kind," the kid behind the counter rolled his eyes to a series of silver bags full of coffee beans on display to Dean's left. "Kona Blend, Breakfast Blend, House Blend, Espresso Roast, Caffe Verona, Asia Pacific, Latin America—"

Dean blinked and shook his head quickly. "Just gimme, uh… House Blend."

"Venti, Grande, or Tall?"

"Huh?" Dean pulled his eyebrows together, darting a quick look back over at the women who were laughing now.

"What size, Dude?"

"Oh, uh, large," Dean looked back at the kid, not missing the repeated eye-roll.

"So, Venti, then?"

"Whatever, Guenther, just make it hot and black, okay?"

Dean set a five dollar bill on the counter.

"It's $7.50, man," the kid protested, keeping his grip on the coffee.

Do. Not. Kill. The. Locals. Dean gritted his teeth, smiling tightly at the kid, and gave him the rest of the money. Sammy, you had better be finding a shitload of information at that library because—

"…always wondered about Daniel Gibson and Sara Tyler."

Dean sat down on the window seat, setting his House Blend beside him and picking up a discarded paper. As the women continued to talk, he scanned the paper blindly and sipped what turned out to be a rather good cup of coffee. Better be for seven friggin' fifty.

"You think they were having an affair?" Maxine leaned forward, laying her hand on top of Beth's forearm. Dean watched from the corner of his eyes, wondering idly why women always seemed to need to touch when talking.

"Nah... Daniel was too into himself to care about anyone else—even Anna. I mean... he could have been the next mayor, if..." Beth nodded, as if saddened in some way by Daniel's death.

"Yeah."

"But they did seem... close."

Maxine chuckled. "Maybe he was her dealer..."

Beth waved at her, joining in her laughter. "Maybe she was his!"

Dean shook his head, sipping his coffee, slightly amazed at the undercurrent of secrets and lies, gossip and backstabbing that seemed to run beneath the Friendliest Town in Oklahoma. Your romance with narcotics is laughable, dear Daniel, because you would rather indulge in a substance that will tear you apart from the inside out…

That line from the ego-driven letter drifted through Dean's mind. The killer had known that Daniel had a drug problem, but apparently that wasn't as secret as Daniel had probably hoped. And what did Sara Tyler have to do with Daniel's sin? If anything?

"Speaking of Sara," Maxine sat back, cupping her hands around her coffee cup. "You still want to go up to her greenhouse tomorrow? Get some seeds? I know we were going to try to last weekend, but with Logan's soccer game, and Katherine's horse show…"

"Oh, I know," Beth nodded, commiserating with her friend's hectic schedule. "I do need to get some Zinnias, and I think it would probably go a long way to support her… I hear the greenhouse hasn't been doing so well."

"Yeah, that's what I heard, too," Maxine said, licking her lips and glancing down slightly demurely. Dean resisted the urge to curl his lip in annoyed disgust. He sensed what was coming. "You know… if we timed it just right, we could get her after a bottle or two…"

Beth shook her head, an amused smile hardening her features. "Haggle her when she's trashed?"

"Sure!" Maxine laughed. "We could get the seeds for a fourth of the price they're charging over at Larry's."

"You're probably right," Beth covered her mouth with her fingers, then shrugged. "I mean, seriously, if the woman can't abstain long enough to attend one PTA meeting—"

Dean physically jerked at her use of that word. "Son of a bitch," he breathed, straightening up quickly and looking over at Beth.

Beth and Maxine met his wide eyes with narrowed ones.

"I beg your pardon?" Beth snapped, her cool blue eyes taking in his still-bruised cheek and mouth parted in delighted shock.

Dean released a quick, startled laugh, his grin reaching his eyes as he grasped the significance of what he'd just connected. Doesn't just have to be about sex… anything someone does too much of…

Sam's words teased his memory. Bastard picked Gluttony, Dean realized with an odd sense of accomplishment and purpose.

"Sorry," he said, laughing again. "I, uh… just remembered… forgot to get my, uh, Mom flowers for her birthday."

Beth looked at Maxine, who blinked owlishly back at her.

"Think this greenhouse you were talking about would be a place to get a nice…"

"Arrangement?" Maxine offered when Dean circled his hand in the air, searching for the word.

"Yeah, right! Arrangement."

Beth shrugged. "I suppose… I mean Sara has more seedlings and trees than bouquets, but—"

"Where is it? This greenhouse?" Dean interrupted.

"Over on Poplar," Maxine answered. "Head out of town on Maine, turn right on Birch, left on Poplar. 'Bout ten miles. Can't miss it."

Dean stood, turning the full power of his grin on to Maxine. "Thanks," he said, working his jaw a bit when she dropped her eyes, blushing.

He set his empty coffee cup on the tray of dishes placed just inside the door and took a beat to enjoy their embarrassed, girlish giggles in the wake of his smile. Still got it, Winchester, he turned left and headed toward the library.

Dean jogged up the stone steps, grasped the over-sized iron handle and hauled the heavy oak door of the library back, all but charging through the opening. He bit the inside of his lip to stop himself from bellowing Sam's name the minute he breached the entrance and found himself surrounded by a myriad of books, card catalogues, and the quietly studious.

He darted past the check-out desk, head swiveling from one side to the other. Where are you, Sasquatch… He caught the edge of a bookshelf with his fingertips, hauling himself up short, thinking he saw Sam out of the corner of his eyes. Wrong. He kept moving through the stacks, head bobbing, dodging patrons in search of books, lips moving silently with a c'mon c'mon c'mon…

Where the hell is he? Dean reached the end of the third row of books when he heard him.

"Yeah, thanks, I just need to make a couple more copies and I'll be done."

Dean pivoted, following the direction he'd heard his brother's voice. He saw Sam standing next to a copy machine, a large book balanced on his arm as he flipped pages, then laid it face-down on the glass surface. His laptop, bag, and John's journal were stacked on the bench next to him. Dean grinned. Sam looked completely at home.

He stepped up to him quickly and his motion brought Sam's head up. Sam grinned and turned to him.

"It's Gluttony," they said in unison.

www

"So, let me get this straight," Sam said as Dean turned the Impala down Poplar. "You overheard a couple of women gossiping, and now you think this Sara Tyler is the next victim."

"She's our Gluttony," Dean said with confidence.

Sam scoffed, a short laugh escaping his lips as he shook his head. "Unbelievable…"

"What?" Dean asked.

"Your ability to get information from women without even speaking to them."

Sam looked out the window through the dust the Impala was kicking up from the dirt road, taking in the farm houses spread out over huge several acre lots. He was relieved that this place was out of the way. They wouldn't have trouble looking around with the smaller and more spread out population. "So, tell me again why we're on our way to this greenhouse?"

"Well, you told me that Gluttony is doing too much of anything, right?"

"Yeah, and—"

"So, I think Sara had a drinking problem."

"Or, she had a glass a night and those women had nothing better to do than talk about other people."

"She could be linked to Daniel Gibson. They were saying that she knew him… sorta. They were acting… close… at Friday's PTA meeting."

Another huff of disbelief came from Sam. "I would just like more to go on than two bored women in a coffee shop. I mean, sure… maybe Daniel Gibson did know this Sara Tyler… but the word Frenum was found with Father Simons, and I'm failing to see a link between Simons and Gibson."

"That's just because I haven't listened to the right woman yet."

Sam laughed. "I'm not touching that one."

"Well it's better than what you got," Dean acted offended. "Just because Gluttony follows Greed in that book. What about the fact that Pride is no where near those two sins in order?"

"I had to go with something," Sam defended himself.

Their conversation halted as Poplar dead-ended into a winding dirt driveway. Dean parked the Impala half-way up, deciding for the both of them that they were going to walk the rest of the way. Sam shoved the papers he'd copied from the library into the journal and followed.

The path sloped upward, ending at three long glass houses in a row. Each one contained an overabundance of greenery pressed into moisture laden windows. Just beyond the greenhouses was a two-story brick house.

"This is thin… at best…" Sam grumbled as they walked along. "We're gonna scare this poor woman."

Sam saw his brother's shoulders roll forward beneath his leather jacket. An audible sigh made its way to Sam's ears.

"Okay, doubting Thomas, just trust me on this, okay? Thought you were the one with all the faith…"

Sam halted, taking a moment to recover from that. For some reason, even though he knew Dean was saying it in jest, Sam felt his brother's words hit him like blows. He watched Dean move toward the first greenhouse without him, his back growing smaller with distance. Dean had become even more of a cynic these past few weeks, not that Sam could blame him. He just wasn't prepared for Dean's disparaging remarks to ever be directed at him like that.

Thought you were the one with all the faith…

It was almost like Dean resented him for that. Not like it was really a part of who Sam was now…

Sam let it drop, moving at a slight jog to catch up with Dean as he opened up the door on the first greenhouse. The door peeled back with a moist pop; the heat and dampness of the air so extreme, they were both sweating upon entry. The greenhouse was filled with seedling trees, vegetables, and potted flowers. The rich, earthy smell of the plants swept over them. They were able to see from the front door to the back, and it was clear that no one was in the first house.

The second was the same story. Dean had opened the door and stuck his head in momentarily, calling out for Sara before ducking back out again. As Dean's hand was on the third door, Sam decided to express his concern about their trespassing.

"Dean, we should just go up to the house, knock and--"

Before Sam could finish, Dean had the third door open. But unlike the first two, where the moisture rich air had carried with it the scent of vegetation, their nostrils were greeted this time with the ripe and sickening perfume of decay. It was so strong that Dean slammed the door shut, choking on the fumes, eyes burning as he turned to the side to breathe some fresh air. Sam was working hard not to gag, his throat burning with what had threatened to come up.

"Holy hell!" Dean wheezed, backing up. He collected himself, bringing his T-shirt up over his nose while locking eyes with Sam. "Thin, huh?"

"Ugh, God…" Sam exclaimed. "I'm sorry I was wrong."

Dean shook his head, and Sam could tell he was psyching himself up to go back in there.

"Dean, we have to--"

"I know, Sam!" Dean barked through the fabric pulled up over his nostrils. "Shit—that was—"

Dean shuddered, reaching for the handle again. He took in a few good gulps of air through the filter of his shirt and then ripped back the door.

Prepared for the stench that saturated the air around them, they were able to step inside this time. Their eyes adjusted to the dim light caused by the thicker brush and growth along the walls and ceiling, and their attention was pulled to the very center of the greenhouse.

Pale and wraithlike, a body was tied and suspended, naked, between two smaller fruit trees. It was visibly bloated and deformed from the heat, arms outspread and held cruelly in place by baling wire that had cut deep into the wrists over time. A dark stain ran over the translucent skin of its lips, down the chin, and created a dark river downward along the chest.

They approached cautiously, eyes fixed to the grotesque display laid out for them like macabre art. Sam started to feel sick again, his throat working to keep everything down. Dean hadn't realized he'd stopped breathing until his chest ached for air.

Glass shattered as Dean's boot connected with a bottle unaware. Both brothers jumped slightly, before their eyes took in what was littering the floor of the greenhouse. Wine bottles. Hundreds of them. They'd been so transfixed on the body, that they'd missed the complementary demonstration to the deceased.

Taking in the sea of glass, there was no doubt in Sam's mind that this was Sara Tyler. Dean had been right…

Sam moved forward, stepping around the bottles, being wary of each carefully placed footfall. He stopped and stood a few feet off of Sara, unable to tear his eyes away in appalled absorption.

"Shit…" Sam finally breathed, looking away in disgust. "There's something in her mouth."

"Get it out then," Dean coaxed from where he'd paused, unable to continue forward from the smell and the concentration of glass bottles flanking the right side, directly in his path.

"You get it out," Sam whispered back harshly.

"Don't be such a girl," Dean replied. "Just reach in there and pull it out. I can't get there from here."

"You're the oldest. It's your job," Sam returned with glare.

"You're closer, man," Dean pressed the back of his hand against his mouth. "It might be a clue."

"I know it might be a clue," Sam snapped.

This is ridiculous.

"Let's just--"

"Find something to--"

"Exactly."

They backed out of the greenhouse slowly, both inhaling loudly once out in the open. Dean cast a look back at the greenhouse, reluctant to just leave her like that.

"Shouldn't we cover her, or something… cut her down?"

Sam shook his head, hating how calloused his next words sounded. "We disturb the scene too much and it will trigger the cops…"

Dean nodded, lips pressed tight, words of protest dying in the face of Sam's logic. They set out in step for the brick house, both unconsciously rubbing at their mouths, wanting to banish the lingering scent of death.

The back door to the house was wide open. In a simultaneous motion, they pulled out the thin black gloves Dean had procured from Shelly and pulled them on. They entered through the kitchen, noting the disarray of dishes and wine bottles on the countertops and strewn across the small table in the corner. The house was eerily quiet. No creaking, movement, or even the sound of the air-conditioner kicking on. Absolute silence… until their ears picked up on music playing faintly in the background.

Dean started through the kitchen toward the arched entranceway to the living room. He paused before he reached the stairs as a new scent hit his nose. Until then he hadn't been sure he'd be able to smell anything but rot for the next few weeks, but something else was breaking through his abused nasal passages.

"You smell that?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded, "Cinnamon."

"Find tongs or something. I'm gonna go kill that music."

Dean reached the top of the stairs, gloved hand on the railing, eyes scanning the empty hallway. Two doors bordered the stairway, one opened, one closed. There was a brief pause in the music and then the chords once again rubbed sideways across his ears, leading him to the opened door. It was Sara Tyler's office. A wide metal and glass desk sat directly across the room from him, the back of a computer facing him. A large bookcase and several hanging plants adorned either side of the room, and scattered on the desk and along the baseboards of the room were several empty wine bottles.

Dean frowned as he moved cautiously into the room. It looked as if Sara had gone on a serious drinking binge over the last several days; the bottles still had price tags on them, and as he got closer to the desk and the source of the music, he could see that the bottles on the desk each still had a bit of liquid inside of them. Dean crept around the edge of the desk.

"The apple you're eating is simple and real. Water the flowers that grow at your heel, guiding your visions to heaven and heaven is in your mind…"

Gloved finger trailing along the edge of the desk, Dean ran his eyes over the computer monitor, realizing that was where the music emanated from. He reached for the mouse, his gaze catching on the screen saver flashing pictures of flowers, children, and women Sara might have thought were her friends. Dean saw Maxine from the coffee house grinning cheekily out at him from the back of a pickup, a very much alive and happy-looking Sara Tyler sitting next to her. Dean slid the mouse over the mouse pad, erasing the screen saver and bringing up Sara's desktop.

He saw the link to her music and clicked the stop button. The complete silence in the room--in the house--was immediate. Dean unconsciously held his breath. He couldn't even hear Sam downstairs in the kitchen. It was as if the world was suddenly muted.

Looking once more around the room, he felt an odd, sad weight in his heart. Sara Tyler may have had a problem, but though Daniel Gibson and Father Simons may not have deserved to die in such a way, to Dean, her death just seemed... unfair. It appeared from his brief survey of her house that she lived quietly and alone, that she had at one time had friends and had drowned them all in wine, that she had once had a passion and had lost it when she lost herself somewhere along the way.

Dean glanced over his shoulder and peered out of the small window toward the row of greenhouses. Sara was still back there, hanging naked and alone. He swallowed. This bastard was playing judge and jury on these people's lives. Who was this freak to say that these sins were punishable by death? Not just death, Dean's thoughts felt loud in the silence of the house. He's torturing them, humiliating them… practically stripping their humanity.

Sam was right… demon or not, it was evil.

Backing away from the desk, his eyes hit an open day planner on the edge near the keyboard. Looking closer, he saw written in neat, block letters on every Friday afternoon at four p.m.: Father Simons, confession.

"Son of a bitch," Dean said softly in wonder. If the coffee-shop women were to be believed, then Sara Tyler was connected to both Daniel Gibson and now Father Simons. "How the hell—"

His sudden tangle of thoughts was halted by a dull thump from the room across the hall. Dean felt himself go still. Sara's body hadn't been discovered by anyone, and due to the level of decomposition, he knew she'd been dead for some time and had therefore assumed that the killer was long gone. The thump came once more and Dean reached into his back waistband for his .45.

With the reassuring weight of the gun in his grip, his arms leading his exit from the office, Dean stepped into the hall, glancing once down the stairs and catching sight of Sam exiting the kitchen with something in his hand. He saw Sam jerk to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, noting Dean's stance, his eyes darting in immediate worry. Dean shook his head once, pressing a finger to his lips, then held out a hand, indicating Sam should stay there. As he crept closer to the closed door, he saw out of the corner of his eyes that Sam had pulled his own gun.

Atta boy…

Dean reached for the door knob, twisting it slowly and silently from the latch. When the door was free, he used the barrel of the gun to push the door open further. The silence in the house was deafening. He could hear the blood rush in his ears as his heart sped up in an instinctive reaction to the unknown.

As he stepped into the room, he noticed once more the smell of cinnamon. It was stronger in this room, almost overpoweringly so. He checked the back of the bedroom door. Nothing. He moved around the unmade bed and saw another bottle of wine sitting on the nightstand and one on the floor, contents spilled on the beige carpet, staining it blood-red. From the looks of the twisted sheets and scattered possessions across the dresser, Sara had been taken by surprise in this room.

On the floor next to the spilled red wine, he saw a large, white feather.

"Okay, random," he muttered, canting his head to the side and bending over to pick up the feather.

As his fingers brushed the tip, he heard the thump once more coming from the closet directly across from him. Dean straightened quickly, feather tucked against his palm, and aimed the gun at the closet door. Take it easy, Dean, he cautioned himself, unnerved by the silence, the pounding of his heart, the image of Sara struggling against her assailant in this room before being stripped and suspended in her own greenhouse.

Using the barrel of the gun once more, Dean pushed open the accordion door of the closet. For one heartbeat nothing happened. Then with a screech like a banshee, a large gray and white Macaw barreled from the depths of the closet and right at Dean's head.

Dean threw his arms up to protect his face, his cry of surprise stifled by the bird's wings. He stumbled backwards, tripping over the edge of the bed, trying to swing at the tenacious bird. He felt his back hit the door jam of the bedroom and his curse was muffled by another inhuman screech from the bird.

"SAM!" He managed to bellow as he continued to back away. The edge of his boot heel tipped over the top of the stairway, and Dean dropped his arms from their protection of his face to flail quickly and find his balance.

Sam's strong arms caught him from behind, preventing his plummet backwards. His brother's forward motion set him back firmly on the landing at the top of the stairs and they ducked as the Macaw flew over their heads and down the stairs, coming to rest demurely on a perch in the living room. It pulled its right foot up, settling its feathers, then abruptly squawked, "Takes one to know one."

Dean, panting a bit, looked over at his brother, shaking his head. Sam blinked back at him, silently, then held up a pair of kitchen tongs. Dean held up the feather. Sam lifted an eyebrow.

"It was in the closet," Dean explained. "I think she was attacked in her bedroom."

"Wonder why it didn't kill the bird," Sam said, helping Dean straighten up. They tucked their guns back in their waistbands.

Shrugging, Dean led the way down the stairs. "Beats me. I'm sure as hell not above killing the stupid thing."

Dean made his way carefully through the living room, tossing the bird a dirty look. "Freak," he muttered.

The bird squawked again, "Takes one to know one."

Sam's chuckle followed Dean out of the house.

"Laugh it up, Psychic Boy," Dean tossed over his shoulder.

Sam stopped laughing, but his smile remained in place. "Not anymore," he commented, catching up to Dean and matching his stride. "No yellow-eyed demon, no visions."

"Whatever," Dean grumbled. "You're still a freak."

Sam's lips quirked and he stepped past Dean. "Takes one to know one."

Dean clipped him good-naturedly on the back of the head.

As they entered the third greenhouse, being careful to step in their original footprints, Dean found himself holding his breath against the smell he knew was waiting for them. He watched as Sam swallowed, steeling himself for what had to be done. Sam crouched slightly so that he could angle the kitchen tongs into Sara's mouth.

Dean hissed as Sara's head bobbed slightly from Sam's movement. "Easy, Sam."

"You're welcome to give it a try, man," Sam grumbled softly, as if talking too loud would disturb the woman hanging in front of them.

He was able to grasp the object and worked it slowly from her mouth, straightening up and turning to Dean. Dean held out his gloved hand and let Sam drop the object into his palm. It was a wine cork.

"Weird," Dean muttered. He glanced up at Sara, then hastily away. Her nakedness was disturbing as was the bloat of decay, and he couldn't get the image of Sara smiling out at him from the back of the pick-up truck out of his head. She hadn't deserved this.

"How do you think she…"

"What killed her, you mean?" Sam asked, studying the body with an almost analytical eye.

"Yeah."

Sam's eyes trailed over her purplish-stained hands, the scuff marks in the dirt beneath her bare feet, the dark stain on her chest and chin. Then he turned his head and took in the empty wine bottles strewn about the interior of the greenhouse. His eyes came to rest on the cork in Dean's still-open hand.

"I… I think she drowned, Dean."

Dean pulled his eyebrows together over the bridge of his nose, his head tipping slightly back to meet Sam's eyes. "Drowned? In what, wine?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah."

"Are you saying you think she literally drank herself to death?" Dean's voice was incredulous.

"Or someone forced her to," Sam said, glancing back at Sara's body.

He didn't miss his brother's shudder as Dean closed his fist around the cork in his hand.

"What the hell, Sam?"

Sam pressed the back of his hand against his mouth. The heat and smell inside the greenhouse was starting to overwhelm him again. He reached for the cork in Dean's hand, noting his brother's eyes as they flashed up at him. This one was getting to Dean.

Sam turned the cork around in his fingers. "Industria," he said.

"What?" Dean blinked.

"It's like… burned onto the cork."

Dean worked his jaw, his eyes on the cork, on Sam, on the wine bottles, on anything that wasn't Sara Tyler's sad, naked body tied between the trees.

"Let's get out of here," Dean muttered. "I can't… we need to call someone."

Sam nodded. He looked at Dean. His brother's jaw was hard, a muscle bouncing in a staccato rhythm of anger and confusion. Silently, Sam stuffed the wine cork into his pocket then reached out and turned Dean away from Sara's body. He was slightly surprised when Dean allowed himself to be moved so easily. He felt a pang of memory at Dean's pliant form slumping sideways in the bed this morning, his devastated whisper of I'm going to burn, Sam…

Retracing their footsteps, they made the journey back to the Impala in silence. Once there, Dean slid behind the wheel and watched while Sam leaned on the hood and called 911, reporting finding a body when they were out at the Tyler Greenhouse. He flipped the phone shut and climbed into the car.

"Gotta toss this phone," he said softly.

"I know." Dean started up the car, pulling away from the Tyler place without a backward glance. He pointed the Impala toward the motel at the edge of Mercy. "No sulfur, no ectoplasm… nothing overtly demonic…" Dean muttered.

"No physical evidence either," Sam pointed out. "Unless something shows up under lights or… hell, I don't know, fingerprint dusting."

"Sam," Dean glanced over at his brother.

"Yeah?"

"He's playing with us."

Sam looked over at him, surprised. "What?"

"Not us as in you and me, exactly… but… us. Humanity," Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

"So you do think it's demonic," Sam pounced.

Dean just sighed. After a moment he spoke again. "She knew Father Simons."

"Sara Tyler did?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Went to confession every Friday."

Sam frowned. "And if the Gossip Girls are right… she knew Daniel Gibson, too."

"Yep."

"Dean… Sara was killed days ago… maybe even before Daniel died," Sam said, chewing on his bottom lip.

"Apparently nobody cared enough to come by and check on her," Dean said bitterly.

"Not only that," Sam reached into his messenger bag for John's journal and pulled out the papers he'd copied at the library. "I've seen that before… that way it tied her up."

He started rifling through the papers as Dean drove silently.

"Industria," Dean finally muttered. "Means diligence, yeah?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah…"

"What's the opposite of… diligence?"

Sam pulled a paper free from the stack and brought his head up. "Uh… diligence is… like activity, so… Sloth." Sam started to scan the paper again, shaking his head slowly. "Industria is another virtue Dean, and this… killer… is going to punish someone for Sloth… gonna make them…"

"What?" Dean pulled into a parking space in front of the motel, throwing the gear into park. "Gonna make them, what, Sam?"

Sam was studying the photocopied paper he'd pulled from his library stack with a look of honest horror. "Uh, Dean…"

Dean was chewing on his lower lip by this time. Sam's hesitation making him anxious, jumpy, wanting to move, to lash out, to fight something. "What?"

"You ever hear of Dante?"

"Dante? What, like the dude that directed The Howling?"

Sam shot a look over to his brother. "Dude. Seriously."

"What do you want from me, Sam? You get World Lit, I get movies." He returned Sam's look. "You just took a wine cork out of a dead woman's mouth and now you're asking me about friggin' Dante…"

"Dante's Divine Comedy, actually," Sam said, holding the photocopied paper out to Dean, who took it, studying the words with a frown. "Look at this picture."

"Person tied between two trees…"

"Exactly. And here, look at Pride."

"Like Daniel Gibson," Dean muttered.

"Exactly like him. Greed is the same as Father Simons. It's following the deaths in the Divine Comedy," Sam said, tapping the paper.

"Sam…"

"What? It fits!" Sam shoved his hands through his hair. "This one is smart, Dean. It had to have killed Sara… well, awhile ago, right? But it knew no one would look for her until it wanted someone to find her."

Dean looked up from the paper. He studied Sam's face silently for a moment. "Awful big risk, trusting the Keystone Cops to follow the clues… find Sara only after someone found Father Simons… find him only after Daniel. I mean… you heard those guys. The cops've got nothing, Sam."

Sam pressed his lips together. "Maybe it… wasn't counting on the… cops."

Dean frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Maybe it left the clues for someone like… us," Sam whispered thinking of the man in the red ball cap returning the book in the library just when he needed it.

Dean felt cold. He looked back down at the paper. Only demons seemed to know you, seemed to get underneath your skin. Sam was right: there was a pattern to the killings. More than that, there seemed to be a connection between the victims.

"Dean?"

Sam was right about something else, too, Dean thought. There was more evil in the world because of them. There were more beings out there influencing the evil in each of them. More out there hurting, and haunting. More out there destroying lives as his—their—life had been destroyed.

"Dean, you okay?"

Dean wanted to get this evil son of a bitch. He wanted to find it and pound it into the ground before he sent it back to Hell. He wanted it there waiting for him so that he could beat on it some more when they finally came to haul his sorry ass away from this fight, from this life.

"Hey, man, say something."

From his brother.

Dean looked over at Sam. "Guess we got us a lazy sinner to save, huh?"

He pulled his mouth into a shadow of his normal smile, the light of that motion not touching the darkness in his eyes.

www

a/n:

We're both crazy about music, so we kinda pulled out all the stops with this chapter. There will be more as the situations warrant, but for now, here's the play list for Wednesday:

Led Zeppelin: D'yer Mak'er

Boston: Peace of Mind

Aerosmith: Mama Kin

30 Seconds to Mars: The Kill

Staind: Fray (Onari, you'd like this one…)

30 Seconds to Mars: Savior

Ziggy Marley: Dragonfly

Jack Johnson: Better Together

Three Dog Night: Heaven Is In Your Mind

Hope you're enjoying the ride – much more to come… stay tuned!